Impervious
by NPYD
Summary: [Early-mid S6ish. No spoilers.] Sheltered here against the harshness and abrasion of the city, the job, the whole world, she finds the dark doesn't reach her quite as easily.


_If this looks familiar to you… it probably is. Re posting it because Ffnet didn't like it the first time, a year ago. All in one go this time. Holy wall of text, Batman._

* * *

It has not been a good day. In fact, she can scarcely remember worse, at least that didn't end in mortal danger for one of the team. After spending a day in the late-fall slush and the cold and dark of the city, they caught their man. Only, it turns out, they didn't. Oh, they know who did it, alright – they just have no way of proving it. Their murderer smiles grimly at them in a way that suggests he doesn't have a normal understanding of emotions as he walks right out of interrogation, lawyer at the heels of his $3,000 shoes, and tells them brazenly that there's not a damn thing they can do to prove it. And fuck it all, he's right. She wants to punch something or cry or throw herself down the rabbit hole trying to find a way to nail the smug bastard anyway.

But Castle doesn't let her. _Let it go for today,_ he implores; _we'll get him, but not today._

He pulls her back. He always does. When they're running on hour thirteen of the day from hell that started with a call just after midnight, he grips her wrist firmly and mumbles in her ear, ' _Enough. We're going home_.'

His tone brooks no argument. And she doesn't argue, for once. She's too tired, too pissed off, too distraught to do anything but comply with him.

They leave together at half past two, and Castle cautiously shoos her into a taxi before giving the cabbie instructions to her street. He knows what she needs, she realizes, even before she does. They both need it, the solace and quiet of her apartment. Not the clamor of the loft. She loves the loft, she does. The loft is a place for family, and with it the happy commotion that never fails to lift her. But with that, a certain lack of privacy and potential for interruption sends her (and increasingly often, Castle) scrambling for the solitude of her apartment when things get to be too much.

 _This_ place is not for anyone else. Sheltered here against the harshness and abrasion of the city, the job, the whole world, she finds the dark doesn't reach her quite as easily. The dull pain in her shoulders and legs seeps out of her a little when he helps her out of her boots, and she shucks his coat, and they brush icy droplets from each others' hair in the sopping entryway, leaving slushy shoes and damp socks and miserable half-frozen shirts in a puddle on the floor. The heavy smell of the wet wool of their coats fades into the apartment and dissipates, replaced by warm sandalwood and jasmine and home.

He makes coffee and sends her to shower first, and she drinks it while he takes his.

In the mid-afternoon silence and the lukewarm light of her bedroom, he combs her hair so that she doesn't end up with a rat's nest and takes entirely longer than necessary, painstakingly untangling every tiny knot with a precision and tenderness that makes her eyes water. The only other person who's ever taken such care – who she's ever _let_ take such care of her – was her mother.

Thinking about her mother seldom hurts where she expects it to any more. Not when she reads the casefile. Not when she stares that snake Bracken in the face every time Anderson Cooper interviews him about his presidential ambitions. Not when she catches a similar case. No. The absence is felt in the Irish stew she can never cook quite right; in the devastatingly gentle but much larger and more commanding hands that patiently comb her hair now that she's decades too old and decades too young to have someone do it for her; it's in that tooth-rottingly sweet "Truly, Madly, Deeply" song that played incessantly on any radio station they turned to in 1997 when they drove to some cottage along the Outer Banks and stayed a week, just the two of them.

He deems her tangle-free at last and gives her hair a contradictory ruffle, messing it right back up, and she grabs him a pair of boxers, denims, and a black t-shirt. Upon second thought, she plucks a second shirt - one she'll never tell him she wears to bed on the ever more infrequent nights they spend apart - from the growing corner of her closet that's slowly but surely becoming his. ( _The_ drawer overflowed a long time ago.) Kate pulls it on over her own denims, not bothering with a bra.

A while later they've settled at her desk, sharing her overstuffed chair, Castle promising to let her finish her paperwork without distraction as he simply enjoys her company. To her supreme surprise, he keeps his word. Allowing her to curl into his lap, he keeps his touches light and unobtrusive, calming rather than stimulating. He's been so uncharacteristically quiet. She might have forgotten he was there at all if not for the arm around her waist and his cheek resting on her shoulder, head turned away. Before she knows it, they're well over an hour into it and she's finished. Relaxing into his embrace, she sets her pen aside and slides her eyes closed, pressing her ear to his chest and listening to the steady drum of his heart.

He's saying something. His low, gentle voice shakes her an indeterminate time later. She'd nearly been asleep. Maybe she was, floating around the little bubble they've created around themselves.

"Hmm?"

"I said, Do you trust me, Kate?"

Reassurance, that's what he's asking for. Has been all day. The faint contact he maintained through their nightmare of day – a hand on her shoulder, a bump to her hip with his own, a shin rested against her own in the interrogation room. The insistence on a night alone. The need to touch, touch, touch her all the time today. He needs more reassurance than she would have imagined years ago. The cocky playboy act is a practiced one, one he's good at. But it's still all an act. Underneath it, she finds, he's more boy and less play. Less jackass. Still wiseass. More human and more untamed at once. As much as his wildchild, bad boy act attracted-annoyed her in the beginning, there's something she likes even more about this side of him, something that delights her each time she unearths a new layer by good fortune or painstakingly extracts another little truth from him with the same love and attention he's always shown to her.

She nestles further into his warm, broad chest, the gentle rise and fall comforting her.

"I'd better," she finally replies, "you're my partner, after all."

"Do you trust me here, when we're alone? Do you trust me, not to hurt or take advantage of you, when we're having sex _?"_ Oh, now _this_ has promise. Her curiosity piques.

"Yes," she answers simply, automatically, because it needs no elaboration or examination or explanation. She trusts him implicitly, after so many years in the field and over a year in his arms. The things they've done, the things they have yet to do - and the things she has yet to admit aloud to wanting - she trusts him with it all, without reservation.

His lips brush her temple, their warmth leaving a faint hum where they rest for a mere half-second. She waits for an explanation, a tease, a hint, but he's not forthcoming with one.

"Good," and he says nothing else as he shifts her off his lap and stands.

"Where are you going?" it comes out more panicky than she'd have liked, but it does the job.

"I'll be back in an hour and a half or so," he shrugs his still-damp coat on with a grimace and tidies her entryway needlessly, "I'm going to go back to the loft and make sure Alexis and Mother are okay, and get some things. I'll get something for dinner on the way back. We seem to have forgotten lunch."

That explains her protesting stomach. She can wait, though; if Castle is coming back with food it probably means they can salvage something from this day and have some time alone, at least.

"'Kay," she agrees as she watches him go.

Time crawls. Between hunger, curiosity about Castle's earlier question, and her lingering irritation with the case and their day in general, she can't seem to concentrate. Giving up on work for the day and too frustrated even to read, she growls to herself and flops on her couch, absently flipping through TV channels.

Commercial, commercial, sports, telenovela, commercial, stupid sitcom, commercial, sports, Wall Street talking heads, commercial, Lifetime movie, soap opera, commercial, sports, commercial. She throws in the towel after a few cycles through 80 channels of nothing and finally gives up on television too.

Laughing sardonically to no one in particular, she berates herself: Castle's gone 15 minutes and she's already bored out of her mind? Absent anything else to do, she huddles into a corner, wraps Castle's soft shirt around her a little tighter, and lays her head across her arms resting on the back of her couch. Sleep takes her in seconds.

* * *

It's right up there with watching her in the throes of passion and watching her interrogate a suspect. Castle knows it's probably just slightly creepy, watching her sleep, but he finds he can't stop himself sometimes. Relaxed even in her uncomfortable position, she looks content; more vulnerable and more whole at once. True contentment is hers only in sleep. For now.

Tonight, just for a few hours, he intends to change that, provide her whatever waking peace he can.

He indulges for a long minute in watching her easy expression, the gentle rise and fall of her chest (under his shirt, dear god he delights in seeing her wear something that once belonged to him – and don't think he doesn't know she sleeps in it; the new wearmarks on the collar and sleeves that weren't there but a few weeks ago tell it all), but their food is best served hot and that position can't be comfortable even for someone as _flexible_ as Kate, so he reluctantly ends his gaze. Carding his fingers through her still-damp, wavy hair, he shakes her just enough to bring her back

"Wake up, love," he murmurs softly, the endearment slipping from him unbidden, "I'm back."

She blinks up at him foggily, half-grumpy but with a lopsided smile at the same time. Holding out his hand for her, he helps haul her up and watches as she stretches, almost catlike. Her shirt – _his_ shirt, he still can't get over it and he probably never will _–_ hikes up on her, a sliver of her pale, toned stomach exposed and re-covered just like that.

He's seen his share of women in all states of dress and undress; hell, he's seen her completely bare before him. (He still can't get over that, either.) Somehow, it still manages to stop his breath in his throat, seeing just a flash of her under her usual conservative clothing. For a moment he forgets supper and suddenly he knows why Victorian men would wax poetic about the mere flash of an exposed ankle or a sliver of delicate neck uncovered with lace. It's the unintentional tease, the lead-in, the promise of more. It's the way it's snatched out of reach just as quickly. Oh, and that's another interesting thought. He tramples his musings before they take him further astray and instead leads her back to the table off her kitchen.

Castle unpacks their dinner and watches her eyes light up as she inhales the smell of their food, the slight crankiness from her interrupted nap all but gone, but the stress of the day returning in the way she holds her shoulders, the hard line of her jaw. He smiles to himself; if he does his job tonight, those will be a thing of the past. At least for a little while. That's all they can hope for in this life they've chosen and carved for themselves and with each other; a few moments of peace and safety in each other – a cool, quiet shelter in the eye of a firewhirl.

* * *

"Is this Rosa's?" she asks incredulously, "How'd you get this? They're don't do takeaway!"

"For mere peasants, they don't, but being a bestselling author does have its perks," he boasts teasingly as he helps her set their places. Her raised eyebrow tells him she's unimpressed and doesn't buy his story, but still curious.

"Actually, it's not really that way. My mother and Rosa, they used to be on and off Broadway together with the same theatre company, years before she went into the restaurant business. When I got stuck at rehearsals after school, she often brought a meal in for us. She always did like an appreciative fan and god knows with Mother's cooking, I was a fan of anything more sophisticated than microwave food."

He grimaces involuntarily at the memory before continuing, "Ever since, all I have to do is call ahead and she throws enough food at me to feed the Bulgarian army. And occasionally sign a book for some of her other favorite patrons."

Kate smiles indulgently for him and laughs for the first time all day.

"Why doesn't it surprise me that you were cultivating connections even before you hit puberty?" she asks wryly.

They take their respective seats beside one another at the table and he passes her a few boxes at random.

"What'd you order?" she questions.

Castle replies, "I don't know, let's find out. I just asked for a selection of small plates." While he attacks his first box – a mix of fried and sauteed calamari, _yes! -_ she raises her eyebrow again.

"You don't know what you ordered?"

"Rosa's condition for my takeaway privileges? You get what you get, and you'll learn to like it. She doesn't take special orders, not even from – as she's fond of calling me, still – 'the nice little Rodgers boy.' It's like Russian Roulette with deliciousness in every chamber."

She rolls her eyes at him and his terrible simile, but laughs anyway, and he's pretty sure he'd die happy if he could make her laugh like that every day, even if it means playing the fool. Not that he has to try at that. She opens her first box cautiously, and holds the dish up to him, silently asking for identification.

"Ahh, saffron arancini. Rice balls. Those are delicious."

The pair unpack a wedge of brie cheese baked with sundried tomatoes and prosciutto ham, slices of day-old crusty bread on the side; baked baby artichokes; and, as if Rosa somehow just knew, the smallest box contained two bite-sized chocolate-espresso macaroons.

Consuming their meal slowly and with little conversation – no talk of the case at all – she savors the delicious food and easy company, and notes halfway through that they're both still working on ice water. Hmm. This has promise. If he hasn't offered her anything stronger, and hasn't produced any for himself, that must mean he has something in mind for both of them later that doesn't mix with alcohol. The relief of her afternoon nap and the satiation from their meal work on her frayed nerves and lull her, even as the little clues of whatever he has planned for her excites, leaving Kate with a pleasant buzz coursing through her limbs, tingling in all the right places.

Nudging the final box towards her, Castle watches; the glowing embers of something just as dark and sweet as the dessert flickering low in his navy eyes. She bites into the macaroon and the bitter taste of rich coffee mingled with the sweet chocolate floods her senses. Eyes locked on his, she can't contain a tiny noise of delight. The pleasure kindling lowly in her abdomen ignites as the pictures play across his face – the memories of the past, the hopes for the future, the promise of tonight.

"Good?" he asks, biting into his own half before she can even answer.

"Sinful," Kate purrs, playing into his game, and maybe (okay, definitely) trying to push him into hurrying this along. As good as dessert tastes, their mutual appetite is for something entirely different, and he's been spinning her the story all day in every little touch and every little hint he's given her. She needs satiation, resolution.

He won't deny her that. Not in the end, anyway. But she has trouble remembering that as he draws out the affair with his macaroon – really, Castle, _licking the filling off?_ – and his eyes laugh at her growing frustration. And then – _and then! –_ he has the nerve to turn his back to her entirely and start cleaning up. As if she cares about the dishes getting done.

Helping him while still managing to keep her glare at full magnitude is not easy, but she manages. Finally, they're finished. No paperwork. No housework. No well-meaning family to interrupt. She's no longer tired; she just needs to see what his plan is.

But see, she doesn't. As he leads her into the living room without a word and slides behind her on the couch, mirroring their position at her desk of earlier, he produces something from his denim's pockets. Next thing she knows, her world goes dark, a padded blindfold blocking out any hint of light. Yes, this night will be interesting. They've used a tie as a blindfold more than once, and there's a cheap one that really does nothing to block out the light, high in the box in her closet. This is new. High quality. Leather, if the smell is anything to go by. The large padded cups conform around her eyes comfortably rather than pressing against them, and the tie must be leather as well. Definitely not elastic, she deduces as he fastens it behind her head and her hair fails to tangle and pull like it does with hers.

"Comfortable?" he asks, the sound reverberating from his chest into her back.

 _Mmm,_ she replies.

"What's your word, Kate?" Oh, that's how it's going to be? She can't wait. The thought has her on edge again, unconsciously rubbing her thighs together seeking some friction that his steady presence behind her has yet to provide.

"Cherries," she breathes.

"Good girl."

And that's the last thing she hears. Brushing her hair – wavy and wild from air-drying and Castle's ministrations after the shower – behind her ear with a lingering touch around the sensitive shell, he tilts her head gently to the side as he twists something into the canal. White noise fills her ear, the sensation complete when he repeats the actions on her right side.

She knows what these are; tiny in-ear hearing aid-like devices that block sound and replace it with white noise. Castle wears a pair occasionally at the loft while he's writing, so that he can concentrate even as his mother produces a one-woman show or Alexis wanders through the house talking on the phone. They're comfortable and fit her perfectly, sealing out another component of the world.

"Castle?" she tests her voice, seeing just how much she can hear. The sound clangs through her jaw and skull, bounces around her chest, but the verbalization itself is lost. She's pleasantly surprised at just how well they work, because if he replies at all, it's lost on her. His squeeze of her hand and her responding one is agreement enough.

Castle stands, taking her hands in his and laying them flat against the couch.

 _Stay._

Twitching with anticipation, she obeys his silent order, staying still even as every part of her itches to go find him, seek him out. With no visual or audible cues, time moves differently; it feels like an hour that he's gone, though her rational mind says it must be only minutes because he'd never leave her for longer than necessary for whatever else he's doing. Unless he's teasing her. Or he's injured himself. Or the world has collapsed around her. She wouldn't be able to tell. Anxiety bleeds into the anticipation and threatens to overwhelm her just before something – his knuckles, she thinks – drags across her cheek, producing a startled gasp she feels herself make but doesn't hear.

Oh, this is all so weird. And a little scary. But it's Castle, she reminds herself. And if she's with him, she knows it's all okay.

* * *

He's at her front this time, hands closing around her own and pulling her up, whirling her around in his grasp merrily. It's thoroughly unexpected and delicately crazy, the way Castle takes her in his arms, slithers one hand around her waist and clasps the other. Swaying slowly, he rocks her back and forth, her clumsy gait following his, occasionally stepping on his toes. The hum vibrates from his chest to hers, through his feet to hers, from his fingertips into hers, a song she can feel and only he can hear. Soon, their strange dance carries them – she thinks – all over the apartment, until she has no idea where she is and she doesn't care because he's silly her cheeks ache from the stupid grin that's surely plastered on her face like it'll never come off, and this is ridiculous and she loves him.

Well-acquainted with pacing around her own home in the dark, she finds it almost disconcerting that she has absolutely no reference point for her location as he leads her here and there. The hardwood floors throughout make it difficult to discern one room from the other without the minimal visual clues she has even in the dark, or the sound of her footfalls echoing in a bedroom versus her open-concept living and kitchen areas, or even the drone of the refrigerator or the traffic noise that's loud off her living room for the busy thoroughfare underneath that, and barely a buzz from the disused alley below her bedroom.

As bare feet hit already (still?) damp tile, she knows where she is at last – the bathroom. The fan must be on, or the tiny window is open. The air feels humid, the exposed flesh of her arms prickling up as the moving air creates tiny windwhirls all around her and they rove over her livewire skin. Castle's deft fingers work the button and zip of her denims and he takes his time dragging them down her legs, his fingers brushing the sensitive area behind her knees and then curling around an ankle as he helps her step out of the garment. The t-shirt goes next, and her panties thereafter. It's with slight disappointment that she finds he's taken none of the usual detours in undressing her. No eager exploration of her breasts, no affectionate, teasing kisses to her neck or spine; no runic symbols only he knows the meaning of drawn feather-light into the thin skin of her back or angry black-and-blue marks passed from his mouth to her thighs.

A shiver of tempered trepidation prickles over her, starting as it always seems to in the right side of her body and traveling up, around, snaking over her shoulders and firing little lightning bolts into her extremities. He won't hurt her, that much she knows – not in any way they haven't thoroughly enjoyed before, anyway; his tenderness makes her pretty certain that tonight won't be rough and uncontrolled – but what he does have in mind, she cannot fathom. Precise and razorwire sharp as they are, her detectives' skills and her human intuition have never adequately prepared her to predict this man. It's what drives her crazy about him in the best and worst of ways in turn.

Jumping at the slightest stimulation, she gasps as the pins of her hairbrush run across her scalp and up the base of her skull, scraping her hair into a messy ponytail high at the top of her head. He secures the elastic with practiced care and affection, stopping once he's done to brush his fingertips at her hairline.

Her foot hits something solid as he leads her again, and his body – _when did he get naked?_ – presses to her back, guiding her with him until she steps up and _fuck._

It's as if someone has injected ice water directly into her veins, cooling her from the inside out rather than the outside in as he submerges her. She's gasping each breath, icy air filling her lungs, struggling for oxygen, trembling with cold and irritation and the lingering anticipation of earlier. Her legs ache, her feet and hands scream, every nerve-ending seizing up in pain.

Struggling in his arms, she protests the freezing water, tries to find some corner of her small shower stall to escape to where it can't touch her, but he's solid, immovable, and she knows instinctively that tonight he will budge for one thing and one thing only.

The out is hers, if she so wants it. And she does want it, in an immediate way, but desire to see where he takes this wins out. Gulping for air and feebly resisting his grip on her, she almost says it then and there, but he's there with her, he's just as cold as she is, and he doesn't like being cold any more than she does, so, it must be for a good reason. Right?

Carefully avoiding her hair and ears where the delicate plugs reside, he uses the detachable showerhead to ensure her immersion is otherwise complete. Directing the spray over her breasts, her nipples tighten even further, painfully, and she writhes, trying to cover her chest. All she accomplishes is making him aware of just how overstimulated she is there, drawing the treatment out and encouraging him to add his mouth to the mix. Canine teeth raking over her sensitive peak, drawing her nipple into his hot mouth to warm it, then shocking her with another spray of cold again, he teases her, keeps her on edge, somewhere between anger and arousal and fear and _god just do it again and warm me up._ She claws at him, whatever she can reach of him, mouth contorted in a silent scream as he torments her in the best-worst way before resuming his quest to make sure every part of her is cold.

A wash cloth swirls over her skin, and he pays particular attention to her face, then onward to her back and shoulders where she carries so much of her stress Kate peevishly wonders why the hell he would, since the introduction of an ice shower effectively killed all the hard-won relaxation she's been working on ever since they got home.

She can't take the cold any more; her consciousness fizzes black at its ends and she's grateful only for his presence at her back because if he weren't there, she'd simply sink to the floor in a pile of nothingness.

But just as jarringly quick as it began, it's over. The water cuts off and slowly, she swims back to the surface, her breathing steadying, her mind coming back to her. Pressing himself to her again, Castle walks her forward – out of the shower, she supposes, if the sudden rush of warmer air is an indication – and maneuvers her around, lacing his fingers overtop of hers and guiding her palms over something smooth and warm.

The rim of her bathtub. Groping around it, she finds the edges, knows vaguely where she is. As if to encourage her, her partner gives her a little shove forward, not enough to unbalance her even on her still-shaking legs, just enough to urge her onward. Lifting a leg over the edge, she tests the temperature with a still-frozen toe and yelps audibly.

Hot. Very hot.

The wrinkled tips of two fingers press to her lips, meant to tell her to be quiet. Reflexively, she wraps her lips around them and sucks them in her mouth, desperate for something more normal and constant in the face of the remaining shock from the icy shower, and the prospect of the rapid temperature shift into a hot bath. Castle indulges her and leaves his fingers where they are, but uses his free hand and his knees at the back of her thighs to urge her forward more, and seeing no alternative, she plunges one leg right after the other in. His steady presence at her back, he guides her to sit down, the hot water stinging and making her gasp, her icy flesh protesting the dramatic change at first.

And then as the edge of too-much dulls, she feels it. He's brought the washcloth over with him and works the same spots over with it, as much as he can reach, anyway, with her cradled in his arms and sat between his legs. One by one her body relinquishes its long-held tensions and the heat sinks into her bones as they lay there, chest to back. His heartbeat is fast – a combination, she supposes, of the intensity in the change of temperatures and the magnitude of what they're doing – and the steady thrum of it feels heavier than normal, as if the barriers of muscle and bone and sinew are somehow thinner between them now. It may as well be beating into her own, controlling her own rhythms, each push of his blood driving the pull in her own.

She rubs his legs on either side of her waist, paying particular attention to the area affected by last winter's skiing fiasco. It's healed well enough, but she knows on days like this, it still creaks and aches as much as her bad shoulder does. His squeeze of her waist is light and appreciative, and she thinks she can finally stop wondering what's next. She knows from past experience.

He'll dry her off, take her back to the bedroom, and he'll make love to her or at least get her off, and they'll sleep wrapped around each other like kittens. The blindfold and the earplugs are a nice little addition, the ice-shower decidedly less nice but still interesting, now that she's warm again. Baths lead to predictable (though never boring) sequences of events where Castle is involved. She slips into a peaceful state, secure in the feeling that she can predict and maybe control a little of what's next.

Until she can't, because he doesn't do any of that.

It's with minimal effort and a grace that still surprises her that he's able to pick her up, hauling her up with him, and they step languidly out of the bathtub. Patiently, she waits for him to dry her off and take her to bed, but once again her toes hit the step into the shower.

 _Again?_ For a second, she panics. But this time, she's ready for it when they plunge into the cold once more. As ready as one can ever be, that is, to jump from boneless warmth to into glacial cold. Her muscles tense again, but this time, it's in a strangely pleasant way that vaguely reminds her of the way her body ratchets up preceding an intense orgasm.

The way he has them positioned, the water must be hitting his back, cascading down between their bodies in thin rivulets, as she doesn't feel a whole lot of direct spray. But cold is still cold, and she squirms and twists in his arms even as she grows to enjoy the sensation, until his lips find hers and she forgets she's cold or hot or blind or deaf and she's just his again. She lets herself simply enjoy whatever this strange ritual of his is. If the heavy arousal pressing into her hip is any clue, he's enjoying it too.

Almost too soon, he shuts the water off and her knees hit the tub again. She doesn't hesitate before climbing in and leaning against the sloped edge of the cast-iron vessel, drawing her knees to her chest and leaning her chin on top of them to make room for him to slide in opposite her. The ripples in the water he makes as he settles in lap at the edge of her air-drying skin, a strange line forming between cold and hot, submerged and exposed, serene and hyper-aroused.

They rest there, and she feels as if she's becoming part of the water itself, as if it's been able to sink through her skin and flood the rest of her. Absent her other senses, the yearning for her lover's touch is all she is now, but just the wrong side of too relaxed to act and seek it out herself. He is still and lets her stay until the water starts to cool even in its insulated container.

She anticipates it this time, a nearly Pavlovian response, as her feet hit the soaking bath mat. She wants it; craves it, even. _Please, Castle, please,_ she mentally begs, clumsily nuzzling his collar bone and neck in a wordless plea, hoping he understands. _Just once more?_

He complies with her request, if it wasn't his plan all along, and she eagerly steps up and waits for the chill to hit her again, cool her overheated flesh, refresh her, reinvigorate her, give her back that edge. It doesn't disappoint, and she lets out a breathy groan of satisfaction as the good-pain works into her one last time. Reminding her to be quiet, Castle's thumb presses to her lips, and like his fingers earlier, she pops it in her mouth, worrying a raised scar along the first knuckle – the one he got slamming his thumb in the cruiser door a few years ago – with a canine while her tongue swirls around the tip lewdly, an imitation of what she'd rather be occupying her mouth with instead.

That, he doesn't oblige her. Too early for her liking, the cold shower ends, and a warm, dry towel wraps around her. Castle tucks the ends in and curries a smaller hand towel over her legs, arms, shoulders, the ends of her hair now damp despite his effort to keep it up. Needing to do something, she tries returning the favor, but he stops the motion. When she tries again, he simply seizes both of her hands in one of his and holds them back, awkwardly drying the rest of himself with his free one. Kate huffs petulantly, mildly irritated at his refusal to let her touch him even innocently.

It's all forgiven when he lifts her, bridal-style, and carries her off through the apartment. She doesn't even care where she's going any more. Thoroughly relaxed, she's feeling better than she has in months, but still whirring with energy. She knows that wherever they end up, whatever he does, it will be good.

The crisp, cool linen of her sheets is welcome; even more so when she feels him sink next to her. Mind and body so tranquil, she feels as though she could fall asleep and simply never wake up, if not for the pressing need settled between her legs and spreading once again throughout her body, through her veins, prickling over her skin, trapping itself in her throat as a whine she can't make and couldn't have the satisfaction of hearing a response to even if she did.

Newly-dried and steam-soft fingertips walk up her side, leaving humming trails as the roads across the blank canvas of her body that he's determinedly mapping, criss-crossing here and there. He must have opened a window. She can smell the ever-changing city below, sense the shifts in the air current, the contrast of the steam and humidity from the bathroom mingling with the crisp draft in the bedroom. Air-drying skin periodically twitches and prickles up with gooseflesh, only to be soothed down or brought even tighter by the run of his fingertips or the deceptively chaste brush of his lips like tiny wildfires across the plane.

Suddenly, the touch ends, and the shift in the bed tells her he's gotten up, but she can't see him or hear him or know where he's gone at all. Acutely aware of her nudity and exposure in a way that she hasn't been since this whole thing started, in a way she's never felt with him, in fact, Kate has a moment of crippling self-consciousness. Fear, at being unable to see Castle's reactions, unable to watch the play and passion in his eyes and the theatre of his expression as she usually does, of being completely bared to his view, of being unable to hear his murmurs of approval and affirmation and always.

Bringing her knees and thighs closed over her heated center, she tries to move her arms and hands to cover her breasts, to sit up, to do something to feel less vulnerable, but discovers she can't. Apparently when she was too spaced-out to notice, he'd secured her leather cuffs around her wrists, anchoring her to the headboard. Giving the restraints a cursory shake, she feels no extra weight around them, so, no locks. They have yet to break out the set of tiny padlocks that came with the custom leather cuffs, and she finds herself grateful he didn't choose tonight to try them. Reassured that she can get out of this if she needs to, she's torn: desperately wanting to find out where he takes it, and desperately wanting to hide and crawl under the covers and see his gentle smile and let him pass his mouthful of _always_ from his lips into her ears.

"Castle!" she sobs, humiliation and dismay boiling over, feeling rather than hearing her voice project hoarsely, the muted sound echoing through her skull. Too loud. She doesn't want to talk, doesn't want to hear. She wants to go back to her underwater world of suspended time, temperate obscurity, sweet silence.

She doesn't want to safeword out, _she doesn't,_ but where is he and why –

In an instant, his knees press down onto her side of the bed, and he's there, peppering her mouth and what of her face that's left uncovered by the blindfold with presses of his soft lips, slowing the tide of tears she wasn't aware were flowing steadily from her eyes.

Mouthing _I'm sorry, sorry, so sorry,_ and other indistinct placations against her lips, her partner pulls her up and props her against the headboard, mindful of the restraints still attached to her wrists. His warm weight trapping her, surrounding her, it takes the edge off, brings her back to herself. He's right here, she reminds herself; he's always right here. He'll always pull her back. He won't go far.

Regaining control of her runaway emotions and steadying out her breathing, she slowly nods, returning his kiss gently, hoping he understands she wants to continue. His tongue begs entrance from her lips and she grants it heartily, relishing the way his tongue maps the ridges of her mouth as his fingers resume their earlier destinationless journey across the planes of her body, growing steadily more insistent with each passing stroke into her mouth. The enchanting traces of the espresso and chocolate of earlier linger with him, mixing with something just as addicting she's come to know over their time together as just _Castle,_ and the last of her momentary fear slips away as she feels his breathing quicken, his fingers tighten around her, his mouth become rougher.

Earlier attentions to her breasts resume; his unshaven cheek scrapes across her chest, over her fading scar, prickles her in a way she can scarcely articulate how she loves. Castle roughly sucks a hardened nipple into his mouth, scraping it with his teeth then soothing it with his tongue over and over again, lavishing attention on the sensitive peak before abandoning it in favor of its twin, one hand wandering her aimlessly as the other kneads at her chest, almost painfully but not quite. She feels rather than sees or hears the signs of his tight control start to fray at the edges: the drumming of his heart, she feels it in his roughened palms as they shape her like clay; the rapid breathing, she feels the rough exhales blow little jets of warm air as his face hovers over her, millimeters from her skin; the way his hands shake as they do, only when he's overwhelmed with emotion, their stuttering often her only clue of how much something is effecting him, good or bad, be they at a particularly horrible crime scene or at home in one of their beds.

As he _finally_ brings a slightly trembling thumb down press into the bundle of nerves at her core, making her gasp for air, two fingers plunge into her without warning. Sensation – white-hot, indistinct, too-far-gone sensation – fills her, overtakes her. It takes all her scattered self-control not to explode right there and to keep herself from moaning or begging. Thrusting his fingers into her drenched heat, he alternates curling them into that spot inside her and dragging them up and out of her to circle her clit with her own juices, spreading her wetness over her, under him. Her fingers form fists into the air, absent anything to grasp onto from their leather prisons, as her toes curl, the heat ratcheting low in her abdomen. Knees shaking as his expert fingers thrust more insistently, faster, his thumb jerking her clit side to side the way he knows drives her crazy, she abuses his bottom lip, nipping it harshly and rushing to recapture it tenderly when he half-heartedly pulls away. She's close, she's a wreck, she's flying; so, so close, yes, and there, and please, please…

She kills the scream gathering in her chest when he withdraws his fingers just as she's about to fall over the edge, stopping only to sweep his fingers across her mouth, letting her taste the orgasm that he won't let her finish.

Hanging on the precipice for long, torturous moments, she whites out, unable to process what's happening.

At long last her body starts to bring itself down, the few senses she has left coming back into focus. The faint antiseptic smell of their bodywash. The way Castle's legs brace either side of hers. The dryness of her mouth. The inaudible sound of her blood rushing in her ears. The too-tender stroking of her face rather than where she needs him. The fire still roars in her, licking at the edges of her consciousness, barely contained, and she's disappointed at the loss of opportunity, but she's held on high even as his fingers abandon her dripping center in favor of stroking her inner thighs. Just close enough to tease. Walking her off the ledge, but still keeping the fall in sight.

Until that too is gone. The absence of his touch and the warmth from his body hovering over hers letting her know that he's shifted position, Kate's stomach flutters and her legs tremble, waiting for what's coming next. She has no control, no idea what's next, no way to read him, nothing.

It's both unimaginably terrifying and fearlessly safe at once, because it's _Castle_ doing this with her, to her, for her, and they're exploring this together, just like they've explored everything for the last five years. Every moment together, every calamitous backstep and every great leap forward leading inexorably right into the next one, until their whole world, the sum of their parts and their experiences and the wonderful and terrible, it all distills down to just this. Resting in his hands, she knows he could break her – hopes that he will. Knows that he will. She trusts him to break her, knowing he'll put her back together with stronger stuff, that he'll fill in her cracks with him and repair his chips with her, too. Whatever they're forging tonight will fortify them in each other, one more little step into the world they're building around them to keep out the dark.

He doesn't go far, she knows he won't, so she surrenders; allows her mind to drift off into the wilderness of almost-unconsciousness, where time isn't time and sensation becomes secondary, and she doesn't need to be on guard or vigilant or even self-aware. She can't have drifted long, but it feels like forever, there, suspended to her headboard, every nerve firing with the remnants of the broken orgasm, mind all but gone. Indistinctly, she feels him moving around her. Doesn't even care; she'd accept anything at this point. She's too far gone, too out of control, too lost in the sensation and lack of sensation even to want the implicitly promised release.

He could do anything. A distant part of her thinks the idea should scare her, but it doesn't. He could do anything now, make her do anything, she'd take it all, but he won't – would never – abuse her trust or vulnerability.

Perfect safety and peace is hers as she drifts, open and free, and forgets everything.

* * *

Brought back into consciousness, something's pushing at her as she comes back around. What his fingers promised her earlier in the night, she realizes dimly, the fleshy tip of his cock smearing the fluid already leaking from it across her bottom lip delivers. Eagerly sucking it into her mouth and tasting him with enthusiasm, grateful for some sensory input even as the drifting was pleasant, she alternates light and hard; short, swirling sucks with long, languid strokes of her tongue; a daring scrape of her teeth across his delicate foreskin, with a subtle shift in angle that allows his tip to drag across the textured ridges of the roof of her mouth.

The digits of one hand twining with her restrained one, he gives her a way to communicate with him, to signal if she needs out, as her mouth is occupied. Ever the gentleman, he keeps his movements minimal, but the involuntary jerk of his hips tells her he's close. Very close. The thick vein running on his underside jumps when it's stroked by the tip of her tongue, his swollen head steadily leaking now, and dripping into her mouth and down her throat.

Twirling her tongue faster and taking him as deeply as she comfortably can, she has a decision to make. It would take so little to finish him off now, she feels it, his thick and heavy length twitching between her lips, tip sinfully scraping the back of her throat as she encourages him to fuck her willing, pliant mouth, and he obliges, and _fuck_ all she wants is the slightly salty taste of him, spilling into her mouth, sliding down her throat.

If she pulls back now, she has no idea what he'll do. He's been too tender tonight, she doesn't think he would jump to rough and punishing, the way they've enjoyed inflicting on one another on other occasions. Given the number of new introductions tonight, though, she has no clue what he'll do otherwise.

But if he comes, he'll need time to recover. If he has time to recover, he has time to tease her, to play with her, to edge her or push her to her peak her again and again.

It's too much; she has no idea what she wants, what she can or can't take. She can't – can't decide, can't find her thoughts, can't feel or think about anything but this. Needs him. Needs him to make the decision for her, and mercifully, he does.

Hand working insistently but not harshly into her hair and negotiating the elastic out as painlessly as he can, Castle combs his fingers through her wild, dampened locks. Tangling his fingers in them and resting his palm at the back of her skull, cupping her occipital bone, he guides her. Commanding, not forceful; eager, not greedy. Kate meets his haphazard thrust one more time before he tilts her head back and she does the rest, drives onto him, tears filling her eyes as her teeth scrape the base of him and her throat is completely and utterly filled while he holds her head there and she tries to remember how to breathe. Body tensing and cock jumping around her tongue, into her throat, his release scalds her all the way down as she frantically swallows to keep from sputtering.

Bathing his softening cock clean with her tongue before he withdraws, she doesn't even try to stop the disappointed sigh when he pulls free with a pop. It took her so long to admit how much she likes doing this; longer for him to accept it and stop treating it as if it were something she does only for his benefit. In truth, it does as much for her as for him.

She recognizes the cool metal rim of her water bottle as it presses to her lips, the new sensation making her jump and as shudders run through her. Tipping her head back gratefully, she sips, the icy water reminding her of the delicious cold of the shower as she drinks. When she finishes, he moves away, but not before pouring a few drops across her heated chest, startling a breathless laugh from her.

Hovering over her lower body, she knows he's watching her as he calms down, not touching, just _there_. His stare burns into her; she doesn't have to see it to feel it, to sense exactly where he's looking. Kate gratefully absorbs the heat radiating off his form, the thick and sharp scent of sex and her and him driving her up all by itself when he starts teasing again.

He's talking, mumbling around her anklebone as he kisses his way up her leg. The rumbling vibrations of his baritone voice tickle her, make her squirm when he reaches the back of her knee, suckling at the untouched skin there. Conflicted, she wants desperately to know what her lover's saying – and yet, not knowing is undeniably sexy too.

The way he talks to her in bed, completely unlike the person he is with everyone else, never fails to turn her on, push her over the edge. Vulgarities she once believed him incapable of thinking, let alone putting word to, spill out in between pants and growls; unimaginably dirty and it's only grown in intensity since her return from D.C. That fiasco may have been worth it, if only for the homecoming that removed the last bit of mistrust and doubt between them. Since, they've been nearly insatiable in bed, nearly inseparable out of it. A new trust bore openness with fantasies shared, and fantasies explored spurred a change in his words, shifting them from safe and respectful almost-clichés into uncensored filth and frighteningly passionate affirmations of devotion and protectiveness and forever. Their explorations have taken them further in just under two months since they returned together, than the year they had together prior – all leading up to this.

Yes, Kate decides: she definitely wants to hear what he's saying to her. But she can't; he won't let her. She can't do a thing about it. And she loves it.

When he decisively grips her knees, pulling them apart and laying on his stomach, head between her thighs as he plays and leaves little possessive symbols on the delicate skin of her inner thighs, she knows she's completely exposed to his view, to his mouth, to his hands. The thought of it – the knowledge that he sees her spread open and vulnerable and completely unable to reciprocate or distract herself with anything else – makes her strangle down a whine of need as the evidence of her arousal drips from her, only to be caught up by his tongue and spread over her thighs with his kiss.

Dragging the flat of his tongue through her folds, Castle stops to gather her slick fluids on his tongue before moving up to her swollen clit, nuzzling it with his nose and making her jump first before sucking the bundle of nerves in his mouth, flicking his talented tongue across and around. Her hands fist in their restraints, a voiceless plea projecting from her as a gasp when he sucks as his grip on her thighs tightens almost painfully. The frantic need claws at her from within, low in her belly, swelling and growing as her hips jerk and roll, seeking more pressure.

He's talking again, straight into her soaking core around her clit, the rumble of his voice sending shivering vibrations through her, pushing her slowly up to the edge he's had her on all night. She can't breathe, can't think, her whole world narrowing down to the feeling of Castle's mouth where she needs him most, tasting her, savoring. She pants, gasps, jerks her hands, abuses her bottom lip in an attempt to keep from crying out as her body tenses, deliciously tight and just the right side of sore after the water treatment earlier left her muscles so utterly unwound. One good shove is all she needs, falling into oblivion again when his lips close fully around her clit and he hums as he sucks and plays her with his tongue.

Kate barely registers Castle there at all until his fingers slip into her tight heat, two of them thrusting and twisting, faster and rougher than earlier. He doesn't give her a chance to come down when his thumb circles her clit, free hand spanning her hip and spreading across her belly to keep her hips from moving, holding her down just like he knows she likes, forcing her to take the stimulation without return or means of escape.

Drifting on a sea of warring sensations, she blanks out again, body giving into the pleasure fully and building again, he feels it, he must feel it, but he doesn't stop, just keeps moving, pushing her over once more before he jerks away suddenly.

Unable to contain it, she cries out at the loss, or maybe in relief that it's ended, the reverberations far too loud to her disused ears, whimpers and pleads spilling from her in a language only they understand. If he has any response to it she doesn't hear, between the earplugs and the blood rushing in her head and the fact that she's completely out of her mind and could barely give her badge number if asked, let alone remember her own name, she just doesn't care. At last he crawls up her body, his chest and the light sprinkling of hair there brushing hers. Kissing her soundly and meeting her blissed-out smile with what she's sure is a wolfish grin of his own, he brushes her face tenderly with the back of one hand.

Cautiously, she leans up to him as much as her restraints allow, their tongues tangling lazily. He pauses to suck at the spot where she bit down a little too hard, now swollen and scraped. It will be there in the morning, red and angry, and there's no covering it, not even with good makeup. The passing thought of their co-workers seeing it, going out of their way not to look too long at it as they wonder who put it there or why, turns her on far more than it should.

She wants so badly to plead with him to hurry up and get inside her, but on a night like this, he's in control; begging him would only make him do the opposite. Patience is not one of her virtues, never has been, but now she doesn't have a choice and that's really doing it for her just as much as it's frustrating her, stoking the fires barely staved off even by the intense orgasms.

Seemingly intent on dragging things out as long as he can, Castle returns to exploring her unhurriedly, brushing the back of his hand over the underside of her breast, skimming her sides and sending little shivers through her, tracing her collarbone and jaw, drawing mindless patterns on her neck. She comes down off her high a little and sighs into his mouth, nipping his bottom lip harshly, hoping it leaves a mark to match her own. He chuckles, chest shaking into her own with it, instinctively understanding her intent, and she loves that sound, even if she can't hear it right now. It's always the same when they're alone; sweet and low and full of mischief. That she's so often the cause of it warms her, makes her heart swell with affection and pride, that she can make things a little more okay in his world as he does for her.

The stars explode behind her eyes when something presses against her breast and switches on, vibrating in his hands. _Fuck,_ she knows what that is.

The dark blue toy is the only one of its kind that she owns. For all the things in her legendary kinky box, a simple insertable vibrator had never been one of them. Acquired in a moment of pathetic desperation the day after they'd wrapped around each other in the freezer and she chickened out mid-confession, almost died with a mouthful of gutless 'I love you's,' she'd spent many a night with the thing.

Sometimes, she'd come weeping his name aloud when she was alone. Other times, she'd sink her teeth into the heel of her hand where she'd bite to keep herself quiet, if poor, confused, book-smart-but-dull-as-dirt Josh was around, lest he wonder why she'd turned cold-fish some months prior. All the while wishing she could call her partner and tell him, fantasizing about what he might do if she did, but too scared to do it.

He knows all of this; she confessed it all the night he surprised her in D.C. and noticed the toy on her nightstand somewhere between rounds two and three. Until now, he's never used it on her, never taken control of it, never sought to drive out the memory of cowardice-borne loneliness and the short-lived moments of relief the toy brought her in the days before they were them, and in his discontented absence when she ran again.

Kate half-expected he'd use it on her someday, but not like this. God, she never expected this at all. It's a claiming, a repurposing. A tool once used in desperation and as an excuse for spinelessness, becomes an extension of the man it once settled as a poor replacement for, a tool for pleasure, torment, release, love. Underneath it all, love. As he trails the twitching toy down her abdomen, over her ribcage, and at last down between her legs, her last thought as the pain and pleasure of too-much burns through her like wildfire is that she was the one who truly had _no idea_.

* * *

It never escaped him that the toy was his favorite color, one he wore often. The night he saw it there on her nightstand, he knew, and when she told him with hushed tones and stains of shame across her cheeks when she had bought it, the thought crushed him. So much wasted time.

Pressing the soft tip inside her as his fingers stimulate her swollen clit, he's pleased when she responds immediately, still so overstimulated from the earlier attentions. Her beautiful face contorts this way and that in a silent screech, her sharp white teeth gnashing for something to grasp (oh how he wishes it was him; his Kate's a horrid _biter_ and he's her favorite and most willing target) while her fingernails dig into her palms (he wishes it were his back, too, but there will be other nights for that) and her head thrashes side to side.

Kate Beckett undone is, without a doubt, the most incredible thing he's seen in his forty-odd years, and it never loses its novelty. She's always beautiful to him, this woman who carries the weight of the world on her shoulders, whose tireless quest forges her and breaks her down in an endless cycle that will never truly cease until Bracken is put away and Tyson is dead and gone. The rare moments he can see her like this, however, with all of that taken off her for just a few minutes, _this_ is how he loves her best. Someday, he'll see her like this outside of their bedroom, when it's all over and they can walk hand in hand in the day, free and unafraid of what the next will bring. Until then, a few moments will suffice.

Keeping the vibrator on her, he switches his fingers on her clit for the toy, watches in fascinated arousal as she screams at last, the loud symphony piercing his underused ears. It's too much for her. That's the point. He's never pushed her this far, but she needs it tonight and she knows she can get out if she has to. Her loud screech goes on and on, finally ending in gasping sobs and short, sharp cries. Beneath the leather blindfold, he's sure that tears are flowing just as freely from her as the abundant evidence of just how wet she is seeping out of her below, coating her thighs again and glistening across her folds.

"Castle!" she cries out, urgent and wild; he doesn't relent until she crests once more, the orgasm wracking her lithe body with tremors as she curls into herself as much as the restraints allow, unable to cope with any more sensation.

Kate makes no more sounds as she lays there, small and shaking, except a mewl of contentment when he abandons the toy and releases one dainty wrist from the ties (though he leaves the cuff itself on), allowing her to shift onto her side and further draw her knees up to herself.

He can control his arousal just enough to hold back and not thrust inside her grasping heat the way he's wanted to all night, seeing her spread out and tasting her and watching her every reaction, but he can't control himself from talking, even though she can't hear him. Probably couldn't even without the earplugs, she's too far gone. Still, he talks her through it, murmuring nonsense into her neck as he cuddles behind her, hands wrapping around her waist and delighting in the way her muscle and sinew jump beneath this lightest of touch, the way her breath hitches, body still in overdrive.

Castle's never felt her so clearly. From almost the moment they met, they've had an uncanny ability to anticipate one another's thoughts. At first it was all theories and casework, motives and inconsistencies they'd catch onto at the same time, or feed off each other as they built theories. Over time, it's come to run deeper, especially since D.C.. He's spent too many nights in her embrace, feeling as though he's standing in a firestorm as the chaos of her soul bleeds into him, this overflow of mayhem from her when she just can't keep it all inside it any more, leaving him awake to wonder how she survives it. Not tonight. Tonight, her breathing is ragged and uneven and her body is thoroughly spent and relaxed, and there is no chaos. No conflict. No fears of the coming storm or memories of an unhappy past.

As the tremors die down and she gains some control of her breathing, she finds the energy to turn to him, despite the awkward angle it puts her still-bound wrist at. Quickly reaching over, he frees her and the moment she does, she twists to face him fully, her arms tangling into his own, her sweat-soaked body pressing as close as she can to him. He relishes the feeling more perhaps than any other, just holding her, feeling her sense of peace radiate out and warm him.

The faraway, spaced-out look gracing her quirked lips tells her it's done, he's achieved his goal. Completely and utterly stress-free Kate Beckett. It's a sight to behold, and he needs the whole picture.

And what a picture she paints, indeed: as he removes the blindfold, her eyes squeeze shut, startled by even the dim light of her bedroom, the dewy remnants of her tears clinging to each long eyelash. He can't help himself, snuggling down further with her to lay a prayer with his lips across her gossamer eyelids. When she ventures to open them again, pupils so dilated they've almost inched out any trace of her hazel iris, she blinks happily up at him.

'Hi,' she mouths, no sound coming out. Carefully removing the earplugs from her and switching them off, he sets them on her table and grabs her water bottle, taking a swig from it first before letting her drink.

"Hi," he replies when she seems to be drifting back to earth, sappy smile still in place.

Castle hovers halfway over her and she leans up into him, arms wrapping around his neck. Her nose nuzzles his and their lips find their way back together, as they always do. Kissing unhurriedly, Castle groans when her fingers slip between them, stroking his cock and instantly escalating a manageable arousal into painful territory.

"Kate," he mumbles into her mouth, "Kate, no."

Concerned, she pulls back. "No?"

"No," he confirms, shaky sigh rattling from him as he remembers his resolve, "tonight was about you, darlin'."

"Mmmm," Kate purrs, her voice throaty and hoarse, the combination of hours of disuse and strain of going straight from silence to screaming. He's mildly surprised someone didn't call the police, but perhaps given the purposes this apartment often serves for them, the neighbors are simply used to it.

Her fingers pick up their pace, sliding his skin over the hard shaft, pulling a groan from him unbidden.

"Please?" she asks kittenishly, sweet and docile, the haze still clinging to her, making her radiate a glow of happiness.

Castle hesitates, pulled in separate ways by desire to keep her in this state until she drifts off to sleep, and giving her what they both want at risk of working her up again, or worse, of pushing the already over-sensitive body beneath him to the point of pain.

"Please, Castle," Kate begs, nipping his shoulder and collarbone, "I want you inside me, come inside me, please, Castle," she whispers, hips rolling slightly against his, bringing his tip in contact with her wet thighs.

Fuck gallantry.

Pinning her wrists above her head with one hand and using his arm as a prop to keep from pressing her into the mattress, Castle guides himself to her and thrusts into her without further delay, sliding into her sodden center and drawing a high-pitched whine of overwhelmed pleasure from her. Laying on their sides and facing each other, the angle doesn't allow particularly deep penetration, but fuck if either of them even needs it at this point.

One leg snakes around his hip, holding him closer and limiting his ability to thrust. Neither of them is able to hold out long as he rocks into her, barely withdrawing each stroke before returning to her. His rhythmless motions and her hips' weak replies to them bring them close in minutes. Muffled by his lips, she emits little vocalizations, whines and moans and purrs, answered by his groans of pleasure, a strange song only they can make. It's not long before he's pushing her through a final climax that triggers his own release, spilling deep into her as she encourages him with indistinct sounds and licks and bites to his skin, anything she can reach.

Bliss. He fully intended to make the night all about giving her some physical and mental peace, but he's not complaining that it's done just as much for his own frayed nerves as for her. They've built another wall in their shared fortress tonight, another layer between them and the rest of the world, impervious to the cold and dark.

"Thank you," she sighs, voice lethargic and cloudy in the afterglow, leg still hooked behind him, keeping him in her as long as possible. He hardly has the energy to respond. They'll clean up later. Hopefully before work rings, undoubtedly at some ungodly hour. They'll be able to face whatever it is when it does.

"Go to sleep, love," Castle replies after a while as he reaches behind him, straining to turn the light off and pull a thin woven blanket over their sweat-cooling bodies. Kate doesn't hear his gentle command or see the tender smile he has for her when he faces her again. She's already asleep, dreamless and at ease. He follows her gladly. Never far behind.

* * *

 _Will see if it sticks this time! If this is your first read, I'd love to hear your thoughts!_


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